


but the flesh is weak

by peacefrog



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholic Guilt, Confessional Sex, Demons, Dreams, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-23 16:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13791318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: The screen slides open, and through the little window Tomas’ smirking face comes into view. “I have a secret,” he says. “Just for you.”Marcus sighs. “I’m dreaming.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a [tumblr prompt](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com/post/171256054327/if-you-are-inspired-by-demonmarcus-andor): If you are inspired by demon!Marcus and/or demon!Tomas giving the other a blowjob in a confessional booth, I am completely down for that. (Is it real, is it a dream, are they already together or is this the first time they've allowed themselves to act on this thing between them? I leave it all in your capable hands.)

The chapel is dark, quiet save for the frantic ticking of Marcus’ heart. At the end of the aisle a confessional looms, pulsing with golden fire where the altar should be. Marcus inhales deep and begins his approach, the echo-click of his shoes rattling the bone-white pews that surround him.

The door of the confessional slides open to greet him. The parting of a lover’s arms. A glowing maw, an ungodly temptation. Marcus slips inside, takes his seat, and watches as the door clicks shut before him, gentle as a sigh.

At his throat, Marcus feels for his collar, and there it is, right where it shouldn’t be. “Bless me, Father,” comes a familiar voice through the screen, “for I have sinned.”

“Tomas?”

The screen slides open, and through the little window Tomas’ smirking face comes into view. “I have a secret,” he says. “Just for you.”

Marcus sighs. “I’m dreaming.”

Tomas ignores him, his eyes dark with wanting. “Do you want to hear it?”

Marcus nods wordlessly, drawn in by the parting of Tomas’ wet lips.

“Come closer,” Tomas purrs, and Marcus presses his face nearly through the window. “Closer…”

Marcus presses in until he and Tomas are nose-to-nose, and when Tomas kisses him it steals the air from Marcus’ lungs.

Tomas pulls away, smirking wickedly, whispers, “I want to suck your cock, Father Marcus.”

Marcus digs his fingers into the meat of his own thigh, truly feels the ache, repeats like a prayer, “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.”

Marcus blinks, and Tomas is gone before his eyes. Then the door to the confessional is whipping open, and Tomas is there, slinking inside. Marcus’ watches with his heart hammering as Tomas drops to his knees, sliding his warm, strong hands over the curve of Marcus’ knees, gripping his thighs, parting them open to make a space for himself.

Tomas slides in between Marcus’ legs, reaches up and steals his lips in a filthy kiss, licking into his mouth and drawing moans up from his belly. This is a dream. This is a dream. Marcus has never wanted anything more.

Tomas kisses Marcus’ neck just above his collar. “Do you think God will forgive us?” he purrs. 

Marcus wants to answer, tries to speak the words, but he can’t, he can’t, his throat closing and all the air pushing from his lungs as Tomas slides his body down and begins to paw at the front of Marcus’ slacks, at the aching curve of his erection.

Tomas mouths at Marcus’ cock through the fabric of his pants. “Do you want to fuck my mouth, Father?”

It hits him at once like a twisting in his belly. The voice is all wrong. This isn’t only a dream, no. This is something far worse. “You’re not Tomas,” Marcus croaks.

“But I’ll feel like him,” the demon wearing Tomas’ face purrs, working open the fly of Marcus’ pants. “I’ll make you feel so good, Father Marcus. I know how you’ve dreamed of this.”

“No,” Marcus whines, but even as he’s saying it he’s twisting his fingers in Tomas’ hair. Not Tomas’ hair. The false picture being painted by some foul thing. But, oh, how deeply he wants.

“Yes,” the demon drawls with Tomas’ mouth. “Say it.” He is slipping his fingers into the waistband of Marcus’ pants, tugging a little. “Say the word, and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Tears spring in Marcus’ eyes, and he tugs at the demon-that-is-not-Tomas’ hair hard enough to expose the obscene curve of his throat. Forgive me, Father, but the flesh is weak. “Do it,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Give me your mouth.”

The foul thing between his thighs smirks with Tomas’ mouth, and tugs his pants and underwear down roughly. The demon’s lips are on his cock and swallowing him down in one stuttering beat of his heart, and Marcus is gripping Tomas-not-Tomas’ hair with both hands, snapping his hips and fucking up into his mouth.

The pleasure is unbearable, overwhelming the pulse of his own shame. Marcus’ toes curl in his shoes as the demon’s clever mouth takes him to the root, right down into the warm embrace of its wicked throat. Marcus sobs, squeezing his eyes shut and picturing Tomas. His Tomas. His warm, inviting eyes that brim with kindness. The beautiful curve of his mouth. The gentleness with which he bows his head before sleeping to pray.

Forgive me, forgive me. I have defiled the only thing I’ve ever loved as much as You. The demon works Marcus over with its tongue, teasing before taking him down again. When it moans, it sounds just as he’s always pictured Tomas, when he allows himself to think of him this way. In the dark under the covers, folding in on himself as he strokes himself to quiet release when the temptation has become too much. 

Marcus releases his hold on the demon’s hair and grips the collar at his own throat, wrenching it away as he comes buried in the demon’s throat, pulsing away all desire and shame and and want and ache. All that is good and bad and somewhere in between spilling from him into the belly of the unclean thing he has allowed to make love to him with the mouth of his most beloved.

Around him, the confessional bursts with light, the walls trembling. The demon laughs, wiping at its stolen lips, and Marcus kicks it away.

With a voice most foul, the demon says, “Do you think your God will forgive you?” When Marcus doesn’t answer it spits, “Do you think Father Tomas will forgive you?”

Marcus squeezes shut his eyes as tears fall shamefully down his face. He bunches his hands into tight fists at his side. He feels as foul as the things he’s spent his life defeating, as filthy as a serpent dragging its belly through the dirt. Panting, aching, Marcus opens his eyes with a gasp, and he is lying on a cold, hard floor in the semi-dark.

On the bed lies the demon he and Tomas have spent a week and a half exorcising, bound with heavy straps at its wrists and ankles. Its head lolls to one side, smirking down at Marcus as Tomas holds vigil at the side of the man the demon has possessed, praying his rosary quietly.

Marcus’ stirring pulls Tomas from his prayer. “Marcus,” he says, standing, crossing to where Marcus is pulling himself to his feet in the corner. “How did you sleep?”

Marcus can’t meet his eyes. On the bed, the demon laughs from deep in its belly, and Marcus has to turn away. “Fine. Fine…”

“Marcus,” Tomas says with such reverence, gripping Marcus by the shoulder and drawing in his gaze. “Look at me, what happened? What’s wrong?”

Bile rises like a sickness in Marcus’ throat, and his face burns hot with shame. “Nothing, nothing. Just… bad dream. I’ll be fine.”

“Tell me,” Tomas insists, his hands curving gently around the tops of Marcus’ arms. “I’m here for you, Marcus.”

The demon laughs again. “Yes, Marcus, tell the boy what you dreamed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to just end this here but I really can't bear to do that to these two so, a second chapter is coming very soon. :P


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can finish this,” says Tomas.
> 
> “So can I,” Marcus croaks.

It happens too quickly for there to be thought behind it. The demon taunts him with his own words, his own voice, “Give me your mouth,” and at once Marcus is lunging for him, throwing his fist wildly in the general direction of the possessed man’s face.

“Marcus! Marcus!” Tomas leaps after him, pulling him away from the bed before he can throw another punch. “Have you lost your mind?!”

Marcus wrenches out of Tomas’ grip. “I’m fine!” he shouts, turning away. The demon continues to taunt him.

Tomas takes Marcus by the arm and pulls him out into the hall. “You’re not fine,” he says so softly Marcus can’t bear look at him. “Tell me about your dream.”

Marcus stares down at his shoes with wet eyes, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, making himself small. “That thing got inside my head. It’s nothing. I’ll be alright.”

Tomas curls a warm hand around Marcus’ nape. “Can I trust to let you back into that room?”

Marcus lets his eyes wander up to meet Tomas’ intense stare. “I can’t let you finish this on your own.”

“You can if you’re compromised. How did it get into your head?”

“They feed on shame,” Marcus mumbles.

“What? What do you mean? What shame?”

Marcus pulls away and buries his face in his hands. “Nothing, nothing.”

“I can finish this,” says Tomas.

“So can I,” Marcus croaks.

Accepting this, or perhaps only defeated, Tomas nods gently and goes back into the room. Marcus follows, pulls the rosary from his pocket, and joins Tomas to kneel and pray at the bedside. 

The man strapped to the bed is named Bernard, and the demon inside him is named for an angel, was one once. From the light of their Lord in heaven to the pits of hell to a bedroom in St. Louis to a dreamscape confessional wearing Tomas Ortega’s face and dropping to its knees. From God’s love to eternal damnation, and how swiftly Marcus has followed.

“Lord, have mercy,” Tomas speaks gently. Near enough for their shoulders to brush, Tomas glances over at Marcus when his response doesn’t come. “Lord, have mercy,” he repeats.

Marcus’ eyes flit from Tomas back to the resting demon on the bed, his hands clasped tightly together. “Christ, have mercy.”

“Lord, have mercy. Christ, hear us.”

“Christ, graciously hear us.”

They continue on with their litanty, the demon mostly quiet, Bernard groaning in brief moments of lucidity. “We’re getting close,” says Tomas.

The demon gives them a start when it wrenches at its bonds. “Have you told him yet, Father?” the demon spits.

Both of them on their feet now, Tomas turns to Marcus and quietly says, “Let us finish this.”

The demon cackles. “Would he stand so close if he knew? I wonder.”

Tomas dips his fingers into the jar of holy water on the nightstand, splashes the demon and shouts, “Cállate!”

Marcus’ heart hammers and his palms sweat. He wipes them on the front of his pants, breathes deep and steels himself. “God, by your name save me, and by your might defend my cause.”

Tomas joins in, “God, hear my prayer; hearken to the words of my mouth.”

“For haughty men have risen up against me, and fierce men seek my life; they set not God before their eyes.”

The demon howls with laughter. “We both know what you’ve set before your eyes, Father.”

Tomas shouts over the foul words, “See, God is my helper; the Lord sustains my life!”

“Turn back the evil upon my foes; in your faithfulness destroy them!”

They battle the demon for another hour, then two, then on into the night as the family of the man huddles outside the door praying for him. And just as the light of morning has begun to breach the curtains, it is Tomas who at last casts the demon out, his magnificent hands channeling the Grace that Marcus can feel ebbing from himself like the dimming of a bulb. As swiftly as the gasp from Bernard on the bed, coming back to himself with a sob as his family surrounds him.

They don’t stick around, and when Tomas climbs into the passenger seat beside Marcus in the truck the adrenaline spills from him in heady waves. Tomas is magnificent after an exorcism, brimming with pride that should be sinful but only stands to make him more beautiful. He is holy, spilling with the light of righteousness and warm as blood in a vein. Marcus white knuckles the wheel at the sight of Tomas’ sleepy smile as he rests his head against the window.

They stop at the nearest motel and get a room and both of them collapse into their beds with their shoes still on. Tomas chuckles with his eyes closed. “That was good.”

“Yeah,” says Marcus, unable to pull his eyes from Tomas’ face. “Yeah…”

Tomas opens his eyes and turns his face to Marcus. “So are you going to tell me what the demon was talking about?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Tomas smirks. “Keeping secrets is a sin.”

Marcus averts his gaze. “It’s not a secret. It just doesn’t matter.”

Tomas doesn’t push, and for that Marcus is grateful. Tomas pulls himself from the bed and disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later the gentle sound of his shower beginning spills from beyond the door. Marcus goes to his knees to pray, resting his tired body against the side of the bed, begging for guidance and swallowing the guilt as he wonders if God is even listening at all.

Marcus opens his eyes as Tomas emerges from the bathroom, steam billowing behind him like a fog. His skin still damp and his hair dripping, he’s covered with nothing more than a fraying towel wrapped around his hips. “You haven’t seen my blue sweater, have you?” Tomas asks, ripping the towel from his hips and using it to dry his hair.

“I, uh…” They’ve been naked in front of one another dozens of times. It’s never been an issue. Neither of them able to find the time or energy for shame in between the exhausting months and weeks of endless exorcisms. Marcus has thought of Tomas’ body in the dark, of course, in the privacy of the night beneath the covers, but in the moment he’s always maintained his composure. Now, that feels all but impossible. “No, no,” he stammers. “I haven’t.”

Tomas rummages through his bag and sighs. “I think I left it in Duluth.”

Marcus pulls himself to his feet and unzips his bag with his hands trembling, his heart beating so loudly he wonders if Tomas can hear it. He digs through his jumble of clothes in search of Tomas’ lost sweater, thankful for the momentary distraction from the sight before him. “Not in here. Sorry,” he says when he comes back empty-handed. “I have a clean one if you need it.”

“Gracias, hermano, but I’ll be okay.” Tomas smiles and pulls on a threadbare white t-shirt, then rummages around in his bag until he finds a pair of boxers and pulls them on. Marcus does well to keep his eyes on the wall, the water stains on the ceiling, the worn floral carpeting, anywhere but Tomas’ flesh, and the temptation of his flesh now hidden beneath thin fabric.

Marcus excuses himself into the bathroom, and behind the door he tears at his own clothes, kicks them off into a heap on the floor and nearly collapses into the shower. Under the hot spray, he can’t resist the allure of his own hand, finding relief with his other hand pressed to his own mouth as he jerks himself to agonizing relief, Tomas’ bare skin dancing behind his eyes.

When he is finished, he drops to his knees on the cold tile, praying for strength and forgiveness. Praying for some sign that his words might make a difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one should be surprised to see the chapter count increase to three. I'm going to try and not make this a Thing, since this was only supposed to be a one-shot, but I can make no guarantees with these two...


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus emerges from the bathroom thinking of baptism. If only some water existed that could truly wash him clean. Tomas is sprawled on his own bed with his legs spread wide, fast asleep, snoring into the crook of the arm he has slung across his face. Tomas is half hard under his boxers, and while Marcus knows it’s a mere consequence of his biology, he can’t help but to stare, and to ache.

Marcus swears he can feel the heat spilling from Tomas’ parted thighs. How he would love to rest his head there in that warmth, to breathe in the heady scent of his love, to devour that flesh. He strips the quilt off of his bed and drapes it gently over Tomas’ sleeping body with reverence, then dresses quickly and slips beneath the sheets of his own bed, mind racing and restless. 

Deep in his bones, a fire burns, the weight of his guilt stoking the flames. Marcus turns on his side, clicks off his bedside lamp, watches the room swallowed up by dark. When he closes his eyes, he sees only the demon, wearing Tomas’ face and taunting with its wicked lips, and in his dreams, Marcus can find no reprieve from his shame.

—

Marcus dreams that he is falling, tumbling through the empty dark. And the dark is the eye of God, dilated and indifferent. And his screams are swallowed before they leave him. And he feels nothing at all. 

Marcus wakes with a start, the room around him dark as his dream, and he fumbles for the lamp with his heart howling beneath his ribs. He clicks on the light and Tomas’ face comes into view. He is propped up on an elbow in his own bed, frowning beneath the quilt that should be on Marcus’ bed.

“Is everything alright?”

Marcus breathes in the sight of him and sighs. “Just a dream.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Marcus gazes into Tomas’ open face, at the slope of his broad shoulders beneath the stretch of shirt fabric. “No.”

Tomas smiles, and the expression is so soft Marcus can feel the stress of his nightmare waning at once. Tomas tosses off the blanket and drags it with him as he crosses the short distance between their beds. “Scoot over,” he says.

Marcus makes room for Tomas, too much, moving his body all the way over to the opposite side, until he’s nearly spilling off onto the floor. Tomas slips under the sheet and spreads the quilt out over them both, then lies back on his pillow and says, “Don’t shut me out, Marcus. Please.”

“I’m not shutting you out.”

“Then tell me what’s haunting your dreams.”

“They’re just nightmares, Tomas. Go to sleep.”

“Come here.”

Tomas’ arms are open and inviting, spread like wings waiting to enfold, his face relaxed but expecting. Not quite a longing, edging on want. Petals opening to the sun in anticipation of the coming spring.

Tentatively, Marcus moves his body back toward the middle of the bed, then closer still, until the whole of him is nestling against the whole of Tomas, and Tomas’ arms are closing around him, and Marcus’ head is resting against the firm underpinning of Tomas’ chest. Marcus squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to breathe.

“My first weeks of seminary,” Tomas’ voice breaks through the silence, “I was so lonely I could hardly stand it. At Loyola I’d had Jessica, and then… there was only me. And the realization that I would never have anyone again.”

Marcus wants to say something, to cast some reassuring platitude Tomas’ way, but his mouth is so dry he can’t bear open it, and Tomas’ heart is rattling in his ears and through his bones. And he’s never had anyone anyway. Not really. Not before Tomas.

“I think maybe it’s not what God intended for us. To go so long without the comfort of another.” Tomas pulls Marcus in a little closer. “Sleep. I’ll be here with you, my friend.”

Relief comes in waves when Tomas clicks off the bedside lamp, swaddling the room in familiar darkness, and this is what Marcus sees behind his eyes: Fingers pressing into flesh; pink, then white, then pink again. A smattering of stars against black. A crooked smile and a crooking of a finger. Tomas’ heart rattles on inside his ear.

—

Marcus wakes alone in his bed with a paper cup of lukewarm coffee waiting for him on the bedside table. Tomas is gone, and Marcus begins to allow himself the indulgence of worry just as the door to the room is swinging open, and Tomas is nudging his way in with a plastic bag stuffed with styrofoam containers.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” says Tomas, kicking the door shut behind him. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” says Marcus. In Tomas’ arms, his sleep was heavy and dreamless.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Tomas sets the bag down on the bed and pulls out the containers. When he opens them, the heady scent of breakfast is overwhelming, and Marcus’ mouth begins to water. They sit across from one another on the bed eating eggs and bacon, shoveling it into their mouths like they’ve both been starved, and when both containers have been all but licked clean, Marcus has begun to feel something like human.

Tomas shoves the trash into the little bin in the corner and sinks down into the chair by the window. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“I am. Thank you.”

There’s a long beat of silence, and then Tomas says, “Then why won’t you look at me?”

Marcus sighs and his breakfast sours in his belly. “Let’s not do this right now, Tomas.”

“That demon got into your head.”

“Yeah, and now that demon is dust. Rotting. Nothing. Doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again.”

“I don’t see how it happened at all. You’ve been doing this for so long.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t with me before,” Marcus mumbles, but the words are enough to draw Tomas from the chair and back over to the bed.

Tomas sits on the edge of the bed with his brows knitted together. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It looked like you.” Marcus gazes down at the backs of his hands, the cracks like faults in the earth.

“What?”

“It looked liked you. I almost believed it, but then I knew it wasn’t.” Marcus bunches the sheets into his fists, his voice quivering and small. “I knew, and I didn’t care.”

Tomas shifts his body closer, and Marcus imagines that the groaning of the mattress is the opening of the earth. Hell come to swallow him whole. “I am so confused, Marcus,” says Tomas.

Marcus shifts his eyes upward to meet Tomas’ gaze, tears blurring his vision. “I wanted, so terribly, Tomas. You’d hate me if you knew.”

“Marcus, I could never—”

Tomas reaches for Marcus’ hand, but Marcus snatches it away. “I need some air,” he says, wiping at his eyes and wrenching himself away from the bed. He grabs his jacket and bursts out into the morning with no shoes on, sinking down to the concrete just outside the door as soon as he’s alone.

How can he tell Tomas the truth and expect for things between them to ever be the same? The pull of Chicago and the safety of his own bed and his old life will certainly be too strong after learning who he’s living with. The weight of the words unspoken crush the air from Marcus’ lungs, and he pulls the cool morning inside himself trying to remember how to breath.

He pulls the cigarettes from his jacket and lights one with trembling hands, drawing the smoke in deep and allowing it to cleanse him. Soot on top of the filth of his soul. A poison sweeter than what he’s become. He smokes half and stubs it out on the cold ground beside him, shoving the remnants back into the pack and pocketing it. He shuts his eyes and rests his head back against the facade next to the door that does not open.

And within, Tomas is waiting.

—

Marcus slips quietly back into the room, grabs his bag, closes himself in the bathroom to dress. After, he pulls his boots on and pulls the keys from his pocket, and Tomas understands. They grab their things and pile into the truck, leaving the empty shell of their morning in the dust.

Marcus drives with no direction. With no word from Bennett, the destination doesn’t matter. He takes back roads for the scenery, the safety of looming trees sending slats of sunlight into the cabin of the truck and falling over their bodies, strobing in their eyes. The silence between them is suffocating.

Marcus pulls off into the shoulder, the truck’s tires edging into the grass, temping the forest. He shuts off the engine and grips the wheel, then his own thighs, then settles for wringing his hands in his lap. “I’ll take you back to Chicago if you want me to. You’ll never have to see me again.”

Tomas shifts toward Marcus and the seat groans. “I don’t understand why you would say that to me.”

Marcus meets Tomas’ eyes, surprised at his own calm, overwhelmed by the need for confession. “Forgive me, Father. A demon came to me in a dream and he looked like my friend. He overwhelmed me with desire and I defiled him with full knowledge of what I was doing, and in doing so defiled myself.”

“You—”

“The details don’t matter. That foul thing used you and I’m sorry. There’s no one to blame but my own weakness.”

Tomas’ face is unreadable, expressionless, his eyes searching Marcus’ face. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“And this is why you think I should hate you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were tricked by a demon?”

Marcus scoffs, wiping at his eyes. “It didn’t trick me. I knew what I was doing, Tomas.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Then you don’t understand.”

“Did you hate me for what happened with Casey?”

“You were a clueless amateur, Tomas. I’ve been doing this all my life.”

“We all have desires. And no one was hurt. The demon—”

Marcus turns away and reaches for the ignition. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Stop.”

“Just tell me.”

“Marcus.” Tomas rests his hand over Marcus’ where it hesitates to turn the key.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus croaks.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Marcus begins to weep, his hand falling away as he rests his head on the steering wheel. Tomas rubs his hand soothingly down Marcus’ back, and the heat of it is like the rising of the sun.

“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis,” says Tomas quietly, “in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

Tears roll down Marcus cheeks hot and fat, and Tomas curls his hand at Marcus’ nape, running his fingers up into Marcus’ scalp. “Look at me, Marcus,” he says, pulling his hand away, and Marcus feels the loss entirely.

Marcus sniffs, sighs, rubs at his wet eyes and pulls away from the wheel, gazing straight ahead at the road. “Where do you, uh… Where do you want to go?”

Tomas says softly, “I’ll drive,” and without protest, Marcus gives over the wheel, and indeed his own fate, to the hands of the man beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... one more chapter. Just... one more. Really. I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

Tomas’ hands grip the steering wheel, anointed by the sun, gentle golden beams painting his skin. How many blessings have those hands delivered? Ash and water and oil. The Host held high and pressed between his fingers. The very touch of him a benediction. Holy, holy, holy.

Tomas looks over at Marcus and draws his attention upward. It’s only then that Marcus realizes that the truck has come to stop at a gas station. “Are you alright?” Tomas asks. The first words either of them have said in hours.

“Fine,” says Marcus, a little hoarse, as though he hasn’t used his voice in days.

Tomas nods and exits the truck. He pumps the gas and disappears into the building and emerges several minutes later with a plastic bag that he shoves into Marcus’ lap when he climbs back into the truck. Inside, Marcus finds bottles of water and sandwiches wrapped in plastic and a single bar of chocolate.

They eat their sandwiches and drink their water and split the chocolate down the middle and the cab is filled with the sounds of rumpling plastic and chewing and breathing and sighing without words. They shove their trash into the bag and shove the bag into the void beneath the passenger seat and Tomas starts the truck.

They drive until the clock on the dash reads 6pm, but it’s been an hour off for as long as they’ve had the truck and Marcus can’t remember if it’s ahead or behind anymore. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, he chooses the latter. Tomas pulls into the overgrown parking lot of a little crumbling chapel next to a cemetery filled with headstones in various states of disrepair.

“Where are we?” Marcus asks. He hasn’t been paying attention to the signs, just staring straight ahead at the endless stretch of road before them.

“I don’t know,” says Tomas. “I’m tired of driving.”

“I’ll take over.”

“No,” says Tomas, swinging open the driver’s side door. “We could both use some air.”

The air outside is cool with impending night. Above, twilight has begun to bloom, the sun dipping low and well out of sight beyond the surrounding trees, soon to be stolen by the horizon. Around them, the world is tinted pink and gold. They sit dangling on the edge of the truck’s bed, perpetually open with its busted tailgate. 

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” says Tomas.

Marcus lets words rattle around in his skull before settling on, “Empty,” with a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” says Tomas sincerely, resting a hand on Marcus’ knee. 

Marcus gazes down at the hand on his knee and says, “I don’t know if God is listening anymore.”

“He is always listening.”

Marcus laughs bitterly. “Is that so?”

Tomas pulls his hand away. “I’m listening,” he says. “I’m here.”

Marcus lets the weight of Tomas’ words sink in, and decides it’s not a burden. How could he be burdened by the presence of the truest friend he’s ever known? Even through the haze of his aching, festering guilt. He would rather have Tomas. He would rather have him, whatever that may mean.

Tomas roots around in his bag and takes something into his palm, then jumps down to the ground and says, “Come here,” and when Marcus stands he says, “Will you kneel for me, please?”

Marcus shoots Tomas an incredulous look and shudders around the twisting in his belly. “Tomas—”

“Marcus. Please.”

Marcus relents, and drops to his knees on the cold concrete which cuts right through the denim of his jeans. Tomas opens the vile of holy oil in his hands and dabs a little on his thumb, swiping it across Marcus’ brow.

“Through this holy anointing—”

Marcus frowns up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Let me finish.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Your spirit is hurting.”

Marcus sighs and bites back the argument perched under his tongue.

“Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.” Tomas completes the cross on Marcus’ brow and rests his hand gently atop Marcus’ head. “May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”

Tomas helps Marcus to his feet, and Marcus feels as though his knees have turned to water. Tomas holds him up, steadying him with a firm grip, and then his hands are slipping around Marcus, and their bodies are winding together in an embrace that thrums of something holy.

“You are loved,” Tomas whispers into the space behind Marcus’ ear, drawing him closer with two firm hands at Marcus’ back. “By God. By me.”

Tomas lets his lips brush against the skin of Marcus’ neck, and Marcus crumbles, holding onto Tomas to keep from falling into the earth. His feet useless, his body merely a shell to contain the drumming of his heart.

Slowly, Tomas pulls free from the embrace and leads Marcus back to the truck. They lie flat on their backs in the bed, watching night swallow up the sky.

“Your feelings are not unrequited, my friend,” says Tomas, slipping his hand into Marcus’ and winding their fingers together. “If that’s what is troubling you.”

The words should shock him, should unravel the sinew from his very bones, but deep within, Marcus feels nothing but calm. Their bodies sway gently, side-by-side, as though they are adrift on a boat of their own making. As though nothing has changed at all.

“I… I don’t want you to break your vows,” says Marcus after several moments of letting Tomas’ words simmer.

“I don’t intend to break my vows,” says Tomas.

“Good,” says Marcus.

Tomas pulls his hand from Marcus’ and turns on his side, resting his chin on Marcus shoulder. “Kiss me,” he says.

“You just said—”

“I know what I said.” Tomas cages Marcus in with his arms and whispers right against his lips. “This won’t break anything.”

“We shouldn’t risk it.”

“Te amo.” Tomas is all but on top of Marcus, their chests pressed together, their mouths breathing together. “Besame.”

Their lips slot together gently as a whisper. Like a secret hymn slipping between them, caught up in the air passing between their lungs. Marcus pulls Tomas ever closer, tangling his fingers greedily in Tomas’ hair, drinking in the life of him like rebirth. Like a sacrament. The holy Host of his tongue. The baptism of his hands. Those hands that have blessed so many and now seek to draw him nearer.

They kiss until the world turns dark and the air takes on the biting chill of a world devoid of sun. But the cold never reaches them. Not through the weight and the warmth of each other. Tomas’ arousal pokes into Marcus’ hip, and Marcus is faintly aware of his own erection straining against his jeans, but for now he is content to ignore such things. Content to bask in the bounty set before him, to never want for more than he is given. To never want. To never—

“We should,” Tomas breathes against Marcus’ shoulder as he breaks away. “We should get going soon.”

“Yes,” says Marcus, gazing up at the endless canopy of the sky, at the space where God's eye may be. Open or closed, engaged or indifferent. In his arms, Tomas settles in. “Soon.”


End file.
